I Won't be Home for Summer

I won't be home for summer

but my dreams believe otherwise...

Arms wrapped 'round me like a clam to it's pearl,

a smile at midnight only lasts till sun rise.

And there she goes - washed away by salt.

Not from sea but from silent cries

because September feels like drunk lips on skin...

A bundled kiss down my collarbone

and in the liquor let me pretend

that dreams don't lie

and that I'll be home for Summer

So.

Do you have room for a hermit crab?

My house is made from broken things; a heart-shaped locket at the base of a crag

an empty cocoon from which a butterfly bloomed.

After slumber inside I emerge worse off; still me, but covered in silk.

Not the kind that shimmers; the kind that sticks like spider-webs -

hard to wash off

But I know your house is made from seashells

the kind that chime at parting doors

and I hear you like to keep things discarded

That’s why clam-shells cluttered the halls.

I wanted to ask you... is there still room for one more?

I’ll shed my last home, weight off my back

and if you invite me in for Summer, I'll shed my wrap too

lay delicate prints down long empty halls

lining fingerprints blue like paintings on walls.

Stand in your hallways, dress caught in the breeze

crying pearls of laughter, sinking soft on my knees

I remember you still, lost in my dreams.

surrounded by lights; suspended in time

hands burning flesh

on an already hot night

____________________________________________________

What Summer Left Me

(A companion poem)